


The Black Prince

by greysider



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-01 09:10:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12701790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greysider/pseuds/greysider
Summary: Aires of the House Baratheon, first of his name, is the second son of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister. In a world of fire and ice, he must carefully tread the waters of power as he strives to climb his way to the top. Surrounded by enemies on all sides, he must hide the truth of a past life to survive the great game and emerge victorious from the ashes.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. All other concepts and ideas from other books or stories belong to their respective authors. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Early Morning**

**10th** **Day of the Sixth Moon; 296 A.L.**

**The Red Keep**

**King's Landing, Capital of the Seven Kingdoms**

The first ray of sunlight pierced the darkness over the horizon in the far distance.

Brilliant gold and orange hues bled like fire over the Narrow Sea. The first slither of the sun peeked over the skyline in a radiant, white form. Gradually it raised, a defined circle in a vibrant backdrop. Sparrows chirped an explicit melody as they began to wake. The ocean was liquid gold and silver, leaving the plain roofs of the houses of King's Landing dull in comparison. As the sun fully revealed itself it seemed to swell, losing its focus and spreading across the sky.

From atop stone balcony, standing tall and proud, a boy stared out on the horizon. He watched intently as the sun raised itself up into the sky and colored the grey skies of the morning.

Slowly, from the darkness, the sun rose higher and higher, revealing more of the young man's face to the light. He had the kind of face that stopped you in your tracks. His emerald green eyes pierced through the shadows and the sunrise. His straight jet black hair lay neatly across his head. He had a plain jawline and high cheekbones, indicators of high birth.

All independent of each other, they presented characteristics of any man. But together, they formed something else entirely. Together, they showed a young man mature far beyond his years.

As the sunlight moved higher, illuminating more of his body to the day, his eyes remained steady, unblinking. His hands were crossed over each other behind his back and his upright posture was as unmoving.

He was but boy of but 14 years, yet his calm demeanor gave him the appearance of being well beyond his true age.

He was alone on the balcony, the only time of day he was completely by himself. It allowed him a much needed break from the petty squabbles and the harsh politics of his life. Up here, he could be himself. He could be relaxed, calm, and peaceful. He could ignore his life and instead reflect step back and reflect upon it.

It was times like these that made living here in King's Landing worth it. That one hour in the morning, with most of the city still asleep, where the sun rose and bestowed upon the capital its grace.

His Queen Mother would never understand the beauty, the utter perfection, of these simple moments. Her entire being demanded extravagance and entertainment, but this was far more pure. For her, the beginning of the day was just as plain and boring as the end of it. The truth could never be more different.

Life was a cruel thing, wasn't it. It was cut short far too often. It was wasted and abused far too often. Everyday though, was a new opportunity. A new opportunity to make something, to create something, to do something, to rise to become something better. The rise of the sun ushered the hope of living another day for so many millions.

So many of his fellows couldn't understand what was so magnificent about living every day. His grandfather would though. He would understand it better than anyone. Every day, he strived to create something better, for himself, and for his family. He himself wasn't quite so philosophical about it, but he well understood his grandfather and his quest for a legacy.

That was what all men dreamed of after all. Being rememberer. That was the ultimate dream.

You see he didn't fear death, or at least not in the way most men would. He feared being forgotten, just like all secretly did. The end, for him, was not death, but the passing of a memory. Such a thing was far more precious than a life.

Lives ended here and there. Tens of thousands a day. From here to the far east of Essos to the tip of the southern continent. Lives were inconsequential. Memories, though, those were treasure. And every day, he endeavored to make his own just a bit more powerful.

He closed his eyes, appreciating the various sounds that filled the city. He knew he didn't have much time left here. Shortly, he would be thrust back into the realities of life. Soon, he would be forced to grasp the responsibilities of his name and his title as he did every day of his life. For now, though, he stood perfectly still as he felt the heat of the morning's first rays caressed his skin.

The patterning of footsteps woke him from his thoughts. He could tell they were lightly dressed by the soft sound they made every time they placed another foot on the ground.

He looked backwards towards the corridor leading to the balcony. Recognizing the figure, he turned back to look at the sun, enjoying his last few minutes of peace for the day.

Soon enough, a young lad, his age, came to stand next to him, bowing his head as he did.

He turned to face the lad, his expression remaining completely neutral. The boy met his eyes and his mouth opened to express his wonder. He got used to that, the sudden pause in a person's natural expression when they looked his way followed by overcompensating with a nonchalant gaze and a weak smile.

The laws of nature dictated that some stood over others. It didn't matter who or why they did, but that was the way it was. Whether it was money, power, faith, birthright, there would always be those who stood at the top of the pyramid.

Respect followed these lines. Nobleman often times commanded the respect they shouldn't, simply by right of their birth. It was a complex that covered all of Westeros. The weak bowed to the powerful, and the powerful stepped over the weak. Such was the way of life.

The lad extended his hand with a handwritten note in it. Deftly, he seized the letter with his right hand and brought it to him.

With but a slight smile, the boy nodded his head and hurried back towards the corridor, leaving him alone once more.

Slowly, he opened the letter and eyebrows furrowed as he read through it. He took a deep breath as he folded the letter back up.

He tightened his fist and crinkled the thin piece of paper in his hand. Then, barely noticeable, the inside of his hand flashed red. He opened his hand and ash fell from his palm onto the ground. With a wisp of air, the ash flew off into the sky, as if it had never existed.

The game didn't ever wait. One had to seize it in their hands and make their own destiny. It didn't discriminate on age, on gender, on wealth or on blood status. The great game was unavoidable and all consuming. He was but one player on the board, and in the end, there would only be one winner.

He looked over the thousands of houses of King's Landing one more time. His eyes drifted to the Great Sept of Baelor, the only other massive structure that stood out next to the Red Keep.

Soon, soon it would all be his. The Red Keep, the Sept of Baelor, the people, King's Landing, all of Westeros itself. He would have it be his, no matter the cost, and no matter the consequence.

His legacy would be one that would be remembered for millennia to come. All across the world, beyond the edges of Essos and the southern deserts, they would speak his name and remember his accomplishments.

For he was Aires of the House Baratheon; first of his name; son of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister.

And he would rule all.


	2. A Black Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scene is set for the Great Game at King's Landing. Aires Baratheon is summoned to see his father the King, who reveals some disturbing news to the young Prince. But is this plot really what it seems to be?

Morning

10th Day of the Sixth Moon; 296 A.L.

The Red Keep

King's Landing, Capital of the Seven Kingdoms

Aires Baratheon strode down the hallway outside the Great Hall of the Red Keep, his head held high and his black robes flowing behind him.

As he passed them, servants left and right fell to their knees and bent their head to him. He didn't make eye contact with any of them, letting them move past him like shadows that never existed. He himself walked down the middle of the wide corridor. It was both a privilege that came with power and one that inversely projected it.

The hallway was certainly wide enough for him to walk on either side. Having lived in the Red Keep and studied every corner of the massive red monstrosity since the day he was born, he was quite the expert on the building. The corridor was just slightly more than five meters wide, easily allowing at least the same number of people to walk down it next to each other.

Power was more easily represented in the little things than the big ones. The servants bowing whenever in your presence, the lords who played their utmost respect to you, the constant stream of gifts and tribute to keep you in their good graces. Walking straight down the middle of a hallway and watching everybody move to the side for you. That was the true reflection of power.

It was less the broad strokes, and more the minute details. Power was present in every move one made, they just had to have the wisdom to realize it. The bowing of every single servant and lowborn person in the Keep, one by one, continue a tradition of bowing to power than had existed since the First Men. It would probably continue to exist for millennia onwards. In his mind, it was completely unnecessary, but he was wise enough to know that trying to reverse such a protocol as this one had no purpose.

He watched as another young servant girl, Mika, her name was, bow to him as he turned the corner. She was a 15-year-old maid who took care of his clothes and laundry on a regular basis. He knew her well, yet even with her he refused to entertain any visual or verbal communication with her. He was a son of a Great House and an heir to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms; she was a poor servant girl whose family outside the Red Keep struggled to put a meal on the table day in and out.

It wasn't that he believed himself to be superior to her, he just simply was. Oh don't get him wrong, it wasn't either of their faults by any stretch. It was really straightforward. He was born into one life, and she was born into another. He pitied her for it, for sure, but he couldn't be bothered to care about every single one of the million peasants who infected the drain sewer that was King's Landing.

She was a nice girl, no doubt. Very obedient, and with a nice pair of breasts and nice tanned legs to go along with it. But she was a lowborn. She would always be a lowborn. She would always be poor, and hungry, and hopeless, and dependent on some noble family for a consistent meal and a nice set of clothes. In another life, he might instead decide to embark on a social crusade for people like Mika, but that was another life.

Moving swiftly through the halls, he soon came face to face with a man he had hoped to avoid today. He was hunched over and stumbling along, a long chain hanging from his neck weighing him down as he went. He wore overly large plain brown robes, the fabric looking dirty and unscrubbed. Snow white chin hair dangled down to at least his chest level and a few dozen strands covering his balding head.

This was Grandmaester Pycelle, leading member of the Order of Maesters and member of his father the King's Small Council. The 70 year old man moved through the corridor nearly falling into some of the servants as they passed near him. As Pycelle was acting out his elaborate crippled act, Aires adjusted himself and plastered a smile across his face.

"Ahh, Grandmaester!" he shouted out, moving over to the elderly man.

Pycelle looked up in surprise for a second, not having expected the young prince to be in this part of the Keep at this hour. He almost abandoned his posture, before he remembered to wince and fake a pain in his leg. The next second though, he managed a weak smile of his own and raised himself to address the boy.

"My prince," he coughed out, "May I ask what you are doing heading towards your father's residence this early?"

Aires moved towards the man, his charming grim still present. As he neared him, he was able to pick up on a few of the Grandmaester's stray thoughts.

The old man thought himself clever to discern Aires's destination. Sometimes, men in positions of power liked to overestimate their own abilities. Pycelle was one of them. Both he and the man knew the Red Keep like the back of their hand. Anyone of the servant's passing by them now could have accurately guessed his definition based on where they were in the Keep now. Nevertheless, he widened his own eyes to show his surprise at the Grandmaester's deduction.

He saw Pycelle smile slightly, happy to have thrown the prince of balance, or so he thought.

Aires gave out a small chuckle before moving his attention to pretend to focus on one of the Baratheon men-at-arms retainers, Lorian of House Grandison, pass by them.

There were men of all different types always lurking around the Keep. Whether they be loyal or not, it was them that set the stage for the great game to be player out on.

"Indeed," he commented airly returning his eyes to make contact with Pycelle's, "My Lord Father the King has summoned me to speak with him.

Out of the corner of his eyes he saw the Grandmaester's eyes widen slightly before he relaxed them and stored away that information for later use. The man had always been very adept at playing the game, but perhaps, Aires thought, his senility act had had a deeper impact than Pycelle thought.

Everywhere Pycelle went he saw plots and lies. He didn't admonish the man, for he was wise to think the way he did. Nevertheless, the prince beloved himself to be capable of separating the plots from the plans. Pycelle, less so. Maybe it was easier for the old man if he saw everything in one light only, it would make snide.

Aires knew firsthand that in the city of plots and conspiracies, everything seemed to incite paranoia and mistrust. Even the simplest things could be turned into the nightmares and dreams of simple men trying to play the game. He didn't see what part of buying a piece of the fruit at a farmer's market was suspicious, but apparently one of Varys's little birds had seemed to think so.

Never mind that though, Pycelle was opening his mouth to ask another question. No doubt he believed that the answer would be something incredibly incriminating. He would be in for a disappointment, but it seemed the Grandmaester was experiencing a fair amount of those these days.

"My prince," he began again, his usual fake inquisitive expression on his wrinkly face, "Might I ask if you know the reasons for your summons?"

Aires's smile widened.

"Nope,"

Pycelle seemed disappointed, but quickly covered it up. He bid the prince a good day and moved around him to continue towards his destination.

Aires took his happy expression down and went on his way in silence.

Truthfully he didn't know why he had been summoned. He was not worried about it though,

The King of the Trident was far too busy whoring and drinking to be bothered to walk around the Red Keep to talk to his second son. Aires doubted he would even be able to if he wanted to. His weight would have had him falling down the first flight of stairs he came to. Well that was probably an exaggeration, but what was life without being able to poke fun at people?

Always aware of his precise location within the Keep, Aires stopped in the middle of the hall before turning the corner to his father's residence. He steeled himself and took a deep breath. He cleared his throat, calmed his emotions, and strode around the corner.

At the end of this particular hallway stood Ser Preston Greenfield and Ser Boros Blount, both members of the Kingsguard. Their splendid golden armor shined brightly as the rays of sun peered in through the windows on his right.

On the sides of the hall were a number of Lannister men-at-arms, the permanent force relegated to the services of his dear mother here in the capitol. He approached them without slowing down, his head held high and his shoulders upright. Without their helmets, he recognized most of them, scanning their faces discreetly as he walked by.

He did have to say he quite admired their professional battle armor they wore. As a trainer warrior himself, he was aware that such armor and clothing was far more effective in a true battle than the bulky and inflexible suits of stone that the Kingsguard had plastered onto their bodies.

The two royal guards acknowledged them with a non-committal incline of the head and opened the large door for him.

Overall, his opinion of the Kingsguard was, as you could probably tell, not too high. They were glorified guard dogs, not proper warriors. Selmy would be the exception to that, his uncle probably as well. An oathbreaker he may be, but Aires didn't give a rat's shit about upholding oaths unless they actually mattered. Meryn Trant, him Aires could do without. A child beater that one was. He thought that smacking down small babes was equivalent to being a proud warrior.

One day, Aires promised, he would teach Trant a lesson. One that would probably involve a fair amount of blood and tears, and certainly not from himself. However, that day was not today and anytime in the near future. Trant was, unfortunately and not at all surprisingly, a favorite of the crown prince himself, his brother Joffrey. Those two shared fetishes in blood covered young boys and girls.

He continued to pass by more guards and household servants, all taking the proper measures the incline their heads and bend before him as he walked by. For a second he stopped and looked around. There definitely seemed to be more red around here than normal. At usual there was a complement of both Lannister and Baratheon retainers in the Red Keep. Now a days, though, Aires could have sworn he was seeing the Baratheon men purged from the household guard purged one by one. He frowned, but made no other distinguishable expression.

Ever since he could count, there had always been more Lannister men in King's Landing than Baratheons. From retainers to servants to aides to men-at-arms, the red robes and uniforms had long outnumbered those in yellow and black. He was well aware of the jokes that non-nobles with enough understanding of politics liked to make about the Lannisters and the Red Keep.

Nevertheless, it was not something he could ignore. Merchants and traders were not the only ones who were deeply concerned with the concentration of Lannister royal power under a Baratheon King.

A sizeable amount of Westerosi nobility had supported the ascension of King Robert Baratheon to the throne simply to deny it to one who would be held under the influence of the Westerland lords. The fools they had been. If there was anyone in the Kingdom who operated more under Lannister influence than his father, he would commemorate them for their service.

He would have to talk to Selmy about this matter the next time they spared together. He would most likely have insight into what staff changes were being made.

Now was not the time to consider this though, so he filed away those questions for another time.

He came up to his uncle, standing in front of the door he knew to be his father's office.

"Aires, how are you?" he asked, his tone of geniality and casualness making little effect on the prince.

Jaime Lannister, was, without doubt, the most laid back of Tywin's children. You might think at he was forgetting somebody pretty important here, but he wasn't. Tyrion wasn't, far from in truth. Tyrion, no matter how far in drink and cunt he was, had a brilliant mind matched by only a few throughout all of Westeros. His "tiny uncle" as he had jokingly referred to the dwarf in his youth, knew very well how to play the game and how to make the best of his physical deficiencies.

Jaime, however, had never been a player like he and Tyrion had. Even from a young age, the young Lannister heir had always preferred his sword training to his politics lessons. It was his mother who had taken an interest into the finer arts of warfare while her two was wrapped up in the harsher ones.

Uncle Jaime had always been relaxed and good natured. Now that didn't say anything about how Aires perceived the man to be morally, but it was oddly refreshing to have one close contact who didn't play in the game like everybody else did.

"Very well uncle," he replied, his typical smile adorning his face, "It seems to be a nice day by the looks of it."

Jaime Lannister broke into a grin.

"Marvelous indeed! A spar later at the training grounds?" he offered.

"Of course dear uncle. I shall see you there by, let's say," Aires paused to remember his other plans for the day, "Two o'clock after midday."

"Perfect." the Kingslayer replied, opening the door for Aires to walk through.

The prince smiled at Jaime as he passed him, only abandoning it when the door shut behind him.

He looked across the room which was his father's residence. There was a large golden bed off to the corner, the sheets in every which direction. There was a collection of small furniture spread out across the room and various paintings hung on the walls.

He stepped forwards and heard the sound of contact with metal underneath his foot. He raised his leg to see himself having stepped on a beautiful looking golden chalice. The stain of red wine had already seeped into the floor, leaving Aires to believe the cup had been laying there for quite some time.

"Over here son!" He heard his father bellow from another room.

Aires followed to sound to one of the rooms in the back of the residency. He soon entered a large room with a massive wooden desk behind which a window left a serene view of the Narrow Sea.

His father was ensconced on the plain chair behind the desk, another golden chalice in his hands. It was half empty.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a cousin of his from his mother's side, Lancel, with a large pitcher in his hands. It didn't take a genius to deduce what the contents were.

His father's cheeks were slightly red, but but the seven if there was a day that they ever weren't.

Aires smiled calmly and shoved the bile down his throat. His father was probably halfway drunk at the moment, his usual state of being, something the prince would never be able to respect. Nevertheless, he would not and had never raised argument with his father over his habits. Such an argument would serve no purpose other than slowly degrading their relationship, something that was not agreeable to him in any way.

His father, King Robert of the House Baratheon, at this moment, resembled a fat lazy big. One of his legs was propped up on top of his desk and his body seemed to be leaning off of his chair. He stood six-and-a-half feet tall, with broad shoulders, a great round belly, and a thick beard of coarse, black hair, a curtain of jet falling to the nape of his neck.

Robert pounded his overly larger chalice on the table.

"Aires my boy!" He bellowed out, "I have some news for you!"

His father sounded set down by whatever it was he had to say, but he had tried to hide it behind his boisterous voice. He was failing spectator sly. The prince could see the shadows of dismay behind his blue eyes.

Aires raised his eyebrows just a bit while he let his smile curve, showing his interest and curiosity. His father was simple minded. He liked when his children were happy and excited. His father broke out into a wide smile, a genuine one probably. While it would be obvious to all that he had been saddened mere minutes before, seeing his second son so content with him made it impossible for him to be gloomy.

The prince leaned forwards, waiting for his father to reveal to him what this good news might be.

Robert's smile threatened to burst open his face. Clearly he loved making Aires wait in suspense. It didn't necessarily matter what the information was he was holding, just that he held it and Aires didn't. It was a habit of his. And why not, the King told himself. His son always seemed to know more about anything than he did. It was only fair that he got to enjoy moments like these.

"Why don't you tell me how you are first?" He asked, his cheery demeanor all too obvious.

Aires smiled. He was willing to indulge his father for a few minutes. He had done it for years. Doing it now would be no different.

"Father," he pleaded, a little whine added in the back of his voice, "We sat with each other last night for supper!"

Robert burst out laughing again.

"But you know son," he started again, "I feel like I never see enough of you! You're becoming more and more like me every day!"

Aires smiled, trying to hide the scowl that threatened to emerge. That comparison was unnecessary and untrue. It was something he didn't need to be told, not least because it wasn't accurate at all.

"But father," he replied again with some mirth, "Just tell me what your news is!"

Robert did nothing but keep that ridiculous grin of his on his face as he took another swig out of his cup, leaving it newly emptied.

"Lannister!" He barked off towards his cousin Lancel, "Get over here!"

Lancel Lannister scurried over from be corner, the wine pitcher shaking dangerously in his arms. Well that was a disaster waiting to happen, Aires thought, and he would not like to be nearby when it happened. Lancel arrived besides Robert in a split second, his hands still quivering and shaking.

The 17 year old son of Kevan and Dorna Lannister was shy and slow-witted. He rarely talked out loud, preferring to remain in his own silence. It was clear to all that the King abused his squire beyond the norm, but that was one of the perks of being King.

Lancel stood awkwardly, unsure of what to do. A broad smile played on the King's lips. He enjoyed making the young Lannister look like a fool. He might be shackled to their gold, but this one small bit of satisfaction was immensely pleasing.

The teenage lion looked out towards Aires in desperation. The prince gave him a sympathetic smile, but otherwise made no move to help the poor lad.

"Well what are you waiting for you fool!" Robert roared at his incompetent squire, "Pour me some more wine!"

Lancel's head bobbed up and down as he rushed to fill the King's chalice with his pitcher. In his haste, he spilled some on the table.

Aires closed his eyes, fearing the reaction of his father. He didn't care about the Lannister of course, the boy could go play with lions for all he cared. It was rather the tone of voice his father used when berating his squire which man the prince's blood run cold. It sounded so similar to the voice of another fat man constantly drunk. They were not good memories.

Lancel was nothing like him, but he couldn't help but see something every time he saw the interactions between the boy and the King. The situation, the confrontation, the words, they were all too eerily reminiscent of a similar situation with another boy. A boy who lived in a closet with his abusive Aunt and Uncle in another world.

When he heard nothing for a second he reopened his eyes. His father was glaring at Lancel and breathing under his breath, but otherwise stayed silent. As fast as he could, the squire disappeared out of the room to refill the pitcher, leaving Aires along with his fuming father.

"Well father," Aires spoke out cheerily, "You were going to tell me something."

Robert turned his attention back to his son, but the happiness that had existed moments earlier seemed to have vanished.

"Yes," he said simply as he raised his cup to his mouth once again.

He reached over to seize a pile of parchments at the edge of his desk. His put forwards his arm and gestured for Aires to come get them.

The prince moved forwards and took the documents from his father's hand, leaving him to go back to his chalice while he read through them.

They were a series of letters between some very important people. Just by scanning through them, he could see the names of the King, his uncle Renly, Lady Olenna Lord Mace Tyrell of the Reach. The letters were all dated in the past few moons, meaning that the conversation detailed here was all recent.

He would joke that he was surprised that Mace knew how to dictate a letter, but he presence of the Queen of Thorns amongst these documents wiped any humor from his mind. Olenna Tyrell, nee Redwyne, was perhaps the most skilled player of the great game. Her network of spies and informants spanned the length of Westeros and her manipulations ran from castle keeps to tavern sellers.

Aires wondered what could have been going on with the Tyrells that would impacted him so much. His eyebrows furrowed and adopted a puzzled look.

His father sighed and continued to drain his drink as he stared at his son reading through the numerous letters.

Finally, when Aires was finished, he looked back up at his father, his face betraying his astonishment and shock.

"What is this?" He asked. He had understood it perfectly well from reading this letters, but he needed the King to confirm this. He just couldn't believe it.

"You're going to be heading off to Highgarden," King Robert replied, a grim expression marring his formerly joyous face. It was not something that one would see everyday. The King was not a very difficult man to read, and this day was the same as every other.

Highgarden was the seat of House Tyrell and the regional capital of the Reach, the most populated and productive of all of the seven kingdoms. It was also known to some as the "Throne of the Rose Queen", a definition Aires could not find fault with.

He had been to the beautiful city a couple times. He had traveled there first when he was eight, back in 290 A.L. He had been touring all of the kingdoms, a process which took the better part of a year. He had visited every major city from Gulltown to Barrowtown to Sandstone. He had traveled lightly with less than half a dozen companions. He had planned the trip for a year in advance, carefully convincing his father, and more importantly, his mother, to allowing him to go without impeding him.

It was during the trip that he had first met the Tyrell family in their own turf. It was also when he had struck up a friendships with the "Rose of Highgarden", Margaery Tyrell. She was Lord Mace's only daughter and political apprentice to her grandmother Olenna. Since their initial meeting, they had traded letters for many years. Overtime, Margaery had developed into an important confidant for him, something Olenna no doubt helped to facilitate.

The second time he had been graced with the beauty of Highgarden was two years past. As part of a critical trade negotiation concerning tariffs on the Roseroad and trading rights in Goldengrove and Ashford, Aires had traveled with the delegation to the Reach. He had had a nice reunion with his confidant and been able to further strengthen their growing bond.

None could say that Highgarden was not a beautiful city, not that the women were anything less than gorgeous. Nevertheless, Aires's face showed all of what he thought about this idea. His deep frown and look of extreme concern even sent his father off balance. He hadn't expected the prince to have such a negative reaction to the situation.

"Do you understand what this effect this will have on our House?" Aires questioned.

Robert frowned for a second, trying to remember what his son was talking about. He looked down at his cup, hoping maybe to find the answer in the non-existent reflection of the red wine in it. He didn't think he was that drunk yet, he had only started an hour ago. For the sake of him though, he couldn't remember what on earth his black-haired son was alluding to.

He settled with a puzzled face.

That didn't go over with the Prince.

"I am the Lord Steward of our House in the Crownlands, father," he reminded the man tersely, "A position you appointed me to four years ago. Exiling me from the capitol will not help do good for the management of House Baratheon!"

"You are not being exiled!" Robert yelled back, upset at his favorite son even thinking of the prospect. Damn it all. Here he was arguing that he wasn't being exiled. Of course that's what was happening. That was exactly what fucking Cersei wanted, wasn't it. And here he was having to argue on her behalf. He hated this.

"You realize I will have to appoint a new Steward before I leave?" the Prince almost barked at him.

Robert's hand swatted the air in front of him.

"Appoint however you want boy. Maybe that paper obsessed administrator of yours?" he offered, dismissing the question.

"For how long will I have to stay in that city?" Aires asked.

Robert gulped. He had not failed to notice how his son had said "have to stay" and "that city". Clearly not words of endorsement. Even he was not stupid enough not to catch on to that.

"A full 14 moons," he revealed, raising his cup to his mouth again to try and drown away his feelings.

He could see the broken expression on his son's face, and his heart fell another hundred meters to the ground. He turned to look away from the prince, refusing to meet his eyes. He felt sorry about having to do this, truly he didn't want to. However, somehow Cersei had made an about face two weeks ago to push for the idea. Robert had many powers, but when the full weight of Lannister gold was being shoved down your throat, there was little you could do, King or not.

"And when will I be having to leave?" he heard from behind him.

He didn't turn to see his son, simply coughing out his reply in between repeatedly draining the contents of his chalice down his throat.

"Two weeks,"

"That's 14 days I have to set your goddam House in order!" he heard from behind him.

Normally Robert would have protested Aires using such language at him, but he couldn't bring himself to do so right now.

He recognized the heavy sounds of footsteps moving out of the room. The door to the residence was wrenched open and then it was slammed shut.

Robert Baratheon didn't say a word. He sat still, his cup in his hand and a dark scowl on his face.

He didn't care about that sadistic fool Joffrey, the innocent weak Tommen or the invisible squealing Myrcella. Aires was the only one of his children that he took pride in.

Some thought him a fool for naming his son after after the Mad King. He remained convinced, to this day, that he had never made a better decision in naming anything.

If there was nothing else that Robert wanted, he wanted to wipe out the name of Targaryen. He had personally shoved his warhammer into Rhaegar. He had sanctioned the murders of Elia Martell and her Targaryen demon spawn. He had sent assassins after the last remaining dragons, Viserys and Daenerys, year after year.

However, he knew that history was not wiped out by deaths, but by other history. To that end, he had hoped that the son that mirrored him in looks would rewrite the name Aires and shove aside for all eternity the name of the Mad King.

One day, and he knew this to be true, Aires would be the name of the great and popular son of the House Baratheon, not the lunatic king of the house of dragons.

Again his wife succeeding in driving an even deeper wedge between himself and his son! That bitch had done enough to wound him throughout the years, but perhaps nothing was worse than the manipulations she undertook to sever his relation with his son.

Everything from arranging their schedules to keep them apart to sending Aires off on far flung diplomatic missions to keeping him busy with menial things while Aires was around.

Robert liked to think himself intelligent enough to smell plots against him. Cersei loved his first born, Joffrey, to death. She prioritized him in everything she did. She spoiled him and now he had become the little shit Robert always knew he would be.

For some insane reason, Cersei had gotten in her mind from the day that Aires was born that he was somehow a threat to the very existence of her first son. Now Robert had never understood that. Joffrey was the Crown Prince, and as much as he wanted to deny it, some day the fucker was going to become King when he died. No matter how powerful and capable Aires was, and he was leaps and bounds beyond Jeoffrey, he would always be doomed to be the second son, not the first. Aires would inherit the Stormlands, but Joffrey would get the Iron Throne!

But here again, Aires was being sent off. This time it was to the Tyrells. For more than a full year at that! He cursed out loud as he lost himself in his sadness and anger.

He sighed deeply and yelled around the corner for that stupid fuck Lancel to refill his cup. He was going to need it.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Aires burst out of the residency with a frown covering his face and his hands clenching in rage.

Jaime had been about to follow him upon his appearance, but had decided not to. Wise man.

He had not made eye contact with any of the Lannister or Baratheon retainers as they passed him by. He let everybody in sight see his enraged demeanor. They promptly stuck themselves to the walls when they saw him stomping by.

Nobles and lowborns alike could feel the very power of rage that enveloped them when the Prince was near. It was almost as if a projection of sheer indignation was being radiated from Aires Baratheon.

As soon as Aires had turned to corner, though, his entire demeanor changed. His shoulders straightener, his face morphed into an impassive bland screen, and his hands loosened up at his sides.

Then a smirk slowly made its way onto the Prince's face.

You didn't really think he had actually been upset and distraught, had you?

Of course not. Aires was nothing if not a good actor.

He was a master of controlling his emotions.

If his father could think of other things than alcohol and his cock for just a minute, he would have realized how odd it was for Aires to have shown such expression at the revelation. Alas, the King had never watched over any of his children intently as they grew up. As such, he had missed these things over the years, talents that the prince had perfected and honed to mastery.

Whose idea was it originally for him to foster with the Tyrell's for a year?

Why his of course!

Aires had important business in the Reach and across the Seven Kingdoms that, right now, he couldn't safely conduct while at King's Landing. Critical deals, alliances, meetings, and most importantly, certain personal projects.

The Reach would provide a far better landscape for these things. Away from the intrigue and manipulation that infected the capital, Aires would have far more leeway to operate as he wished.

He would be leaving behind the immense power he had wielded for four years in the Crownlands, and he had weighed that cost against the advantages. Eventually, he had come to a decision. In the near future, the Reach offered what he needed most. The Crownlands, though critically important, would not be able to support him when push came to shove, no matter the work he had done in cementing his own power in the region. Highgarden, well that was another matter entirely.

Naturally, Olenna Tyrell had been all too willing to play along with the ruse. The very presence of Aires Baratheon in the Reach's capital would translate into multiple different profits just on the surface.

Furthermore, Robert would perceive this, correctly, as one more attempt to separate himself from his favorite son for his wife's benefit. This was just another element of many that would play directly into his hand. Not for now, but in the future.

For now, Aires was left in the position as being but the second child to the King, leaving him second in the line of succession. Of course, this was not entirely accurate, but it was what the realm believed and it was what Cersei told doubters to believe. He wouldn't lose his head this early in the game by needlessly exposing it without the proper plan put in place.

All the consequences of him being shipped off to Highgarden, as it would seem, would serve to his advantage.

The past six years had been peaceful, but little by little, the realm was brining itself closer to the verge of war. Every moon, tensions were growing and lords put more and more attention into preparing their retainers and levies.

All the players of the game realized that the war would not be cold for much longer. All factions were gearing up for open conflict, and none were focusing too much on hiding it.

The Lannisters were cementing their power over King's Landing and the Royal Court.

The Greyjoys were rebuilding the powerful Iron Fleet and their raiders were seen for the first time in a decade sailing as far east as Slaver's Bay.

The secession movement was steadily building power in the North. Already, half a dozen lords had secretly petitioned the Lord Paramount Eddard Stark to declare independence from the Iron Throne.

In Dorne, the blacksmiths and the forgers stayed open at night to begin stockpiling the Martel's war arsenals.

The Reach was investing their considerable influence in the Stormlands and constructing dozens of new watchtowers and army camps along their border with the Westerlands.

The Riverlands were facing new internal security problems and House Tully was divided at the stem.

Over in Essos, the Targaryen children had taken refuge in the home of the Magistar of Pentos, Illyrio Mopatis.

Pressure was building on all sides and old rivalries were being reignited. All it would take was one spark, and the Seven Kingdoms would be engulfed in wildfire.

Nobody would be safe, and power would be up for grabs by all who craved it.

He, Aires, would not limit himself to remaining but the second son of the House Baratheon for his life. No, his ambition would not allow himself to do such a thing. It necessitated that he rise and claim ultimate power.

Operating within the confines of the status quo would get him nowhere. To break free the status quo had to be demolished and wiped off the face of the map.

As a good friend of his always liked to say:

"Chaos is a ladder."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Hope you enjoy this latest update.
> 
> In this chapter we explore the nature of life at the Red Keep, discover the first plot in this story, and see the full depths of Aires's own manipulations.
> 
> In the reviews to the Introduction to this story, many people questioned why Robert Baratheon would name his son "Aires", after the Mad King, "Aerys". This is explained in this chapter and hopefully it satisfied you who were curious.
> 
> I really do appreciate constructive criticism of my work. If there are errors, things that don't make sense, convoluted thoughts, please let me know and I will do my best to correct them. My work is never perfect, so please tell me when it's not.
> 
> I also want to thank my beta Nathanael of House Willum for all his help editing this chapter. To any of you who would like to help out with this story, I welcome you to contact me.
> 
> Finally, this story will include a large number of original characters. These range from being soldiers, administrators, merchants, sellswords, to prostitutes. Please submit names and descriptions of characters I can use.
> 
> Feel free to ask questions and please favorite, follow, and review. Thanks to all who have done so!
> 
> See you next time,
> 
> Greysider


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